Crush

“Fun, even,” Anne offered.

Mary looked at them both with disapproval. “I never thought of anyone’s pain as enjoyable. Enlightening perhaps, justifiable certainly, but not amusing.”

Daphne could barely pay attention. What was that story really about? she wondered. A struggle for power? Not knowing who your friends are? Betrayals?

“Gotta get your kicks where you can,” Anne said, but her voice was strained and her eyes kept darting about. “Every rat for himself, and God against everyone.”

Isn’t that what we’re going through with Anne?

Mary threw her hands out in annoyance. “How can you ever hope to remember who you are if you fail to distinguish yourself from beasts? If we’re, as you insist, all animals, what difference could it make what our lives were like? Doesn’t the mere existence of the bones say different?”

“Just because we’re all animals doesn’t mean we’re the same animal,” Anne shot back, but her voice was weak, detached, and Daphne found herself staring.

There’s something about you tonight. Something different.

“Funny,” Shirley said. “Sometimes I wonder if we never really had an identity and we’re just really looking for a story we like enough to make our own.”

Anne looked like she was going to respond, but then her eyes flashed back to the door.

Is that it? Was the story trying to warn us about you, Anne?

As if in answer taps came from the hall. Simultaneously, they turned toward the sound.

Shirley’s hand went up to her throat. “It couldn’t be her, not again.”

Mary shook her head and smiled reassuringly, “Hush. It’s not nearly loud enough for our hellish guardian. Probably just some real animals, as usual. More rats.”

Anne leaned back against the counter, put her hands on the edge, pushed herself up, and sat right next to the bones. “Yeah, we’re fine,” she said, her voice again trailing off.

No sooner did she get there than she raised her T-shirt from the side and slowly put the hem down atop the bones, covering them. As Daphne saw this, she felt her dread, the story, and the moment all come crashing together.

That’s it, then.

“Anne, what are you doing?” Daphne said softly, almost in a whisper.

Mary and Shirley started to turn, to see what Daphne was talking about. But it didn’t matter, because just then the thick oak door to the kitchen slammed inward. The force pushing it was great enough to crack the door down the middle. The sound that accompanied it was so harsh, all four girls felt as if their chests had been split open.

Framed in the open doorway, a thick gray mist coiled and writhed. It moved in, around, and over itself, swirling like a hundred ethereal cobras trying to hypnotize their prey. At the center of the maelstrom a thing like a mouth formed, just long enough to utter three short words:

“How…dare…you…”

Daphne was so terrified, she was barely able to turn from the manifesting Headmistress. She had to try to figure out how to hide the bones and escape. Still turning as the temperature rapidly dropped, she caught a glimpse of Mary and Shirley, both paralyzed with fear.

But Anne, Anne was gone—and so were the bones.

With a rush of frigid, fetid air, the mist in the doorway flooded the kitchen. As it came for them, the three wraiths tried to scatter, each screaming:

“No! We’re sorry! Please!”

“Quiet, Shirley! Just run!”

“Where’s Anne? Where did she take the…”

Dark tendrils lashed out, faster than Daphne’s last coherent thought:

Anne stole the bones. She knew the Headmistress was coming and she stole the bones.

The sound of their voices, the scraping of their movements, all went silent at the same moment. Atop the stove the rat watched the violent struggle of light and dark. It saw long tentacles of churning smoke snap themselves across the pretty mouths of the three girls, while others twisted their delicate hands and bound their lovely legs.

And then the mass of smoke and spirits disappeared, like a fading shadow, through the doorway. The cracked door slammed shut. For a while, the echo of the thud was the only sound. Briefly it crashed about the kitchen, bouncing between the steel cabinets and tile walls, weaker and weaker as it went.

When the reverberations finally faded, the rat finished nibbling the bit of grit in its claws. The noise was terrifying, and the rat had feared the other creatures that were here might be after its food, the way its fellow rats always were. Once satisfied that the room was quiet again, it set about looking for more. When it found the next big gob of rotted, crusty grease, it let into it with gusto, comforted by the fact that tonight at least, it wouldn’t have to share with anyone.

TO BE CONTINUED

About the Authors

STEFAN PETRUCHA was minding his own business writing many books, including TEEN, INC., THE SHADOW OF FRANKENSTEIN, and the award-winning Nancy Drew graphic novels, when a mysterious force entered his car in New York City and started talking about horror stories. Wicked Dead is the result. He has since moved to Amherst, Massachusetts.

THOMAS PENDLETON is a mysterious force with many names. All we know for sure is that under another name he is a critically acclaimed and award-winning horror author. He lives in Austin, Texas. We were afraid to ask him anything else.

You can visit them online at www.wickeddead.com.

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Copyright

WICKED DEAD: CRUSH. Copyright © 2008 by Stefan Petrucha and Thomas Pendleton. All rights reserved u